


Double Sausage with Extra Cheese

by Legendaerie



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pizza Place, Friends to Lovers, Gratuitous Stupidity, I Can't Believe That's A Pre Existing Tag, M/M, More Warnings To Follow, Slow Burn, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-31 22:20:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/Legendaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with a terrible coincidence, a mix up of names and broken hearted drunk girls looking for a threesome with the other pizza guy.  And it's probably going to end with porn.</p><p>Oh, well.  At least the pizza's delicious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two Marcos, One Polo

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted to my tumblr (erm, submitted to other people's tumblrs) and then it got fanart???http://muchacha11.tumblr.com/post/65407522324/another-happy-jeanmarco-au-because-i-just-cant
> 
> what is even happening.
> 
> but yeah no this here is dedicated to all my jeanmarco peeps (there are literally too many to list and even the ones i dont know should feel very loved, but especially Enjouji) and yeah

It is _way too cold_ for this kind of bullshit.

  
Jean rubs his hands together in his car as the engine idles. He’s pulled off the road in between two weirdly similar and yet completely asymmetrical apartment complexes, squinting angrily at the hastily scribbled address he’d jotted down on the back of a receipt. It’s a frigid night in October and if the pizza’s cold when he delivers it the price comes out of his paycheck. It’s the guarantee that comes with his specific branch of Marco’s Pizza because Erwin is a fucking hard-ass and doesn't waste a single minute of his employee’s hours. The man runs his pizza place like a _general_ and if nothing else, the profits and the strict quality could never be doubted.

  
Working there, however, took the kind of zeal for cuisine and meticulous attention to detail worthy of the most neurotic foodie possible. In contrast, Jean eats ramen dry out of the bag and has been known to drink rotten milk without noticing until several hours later when he’s praying to the porcelain gods for a swift death. This, plus the fact that he's one of the few people in this century who can drive a stick, Jean ends up taking the trashy company car out for deliveries. Now, normally this wouldn't be a big deal but the heater is _kind of_ broken and Jean is _kind of_ taking a haphazard guess as to whether he wrote down 1024 or 1026.  Or maybe 1066.

  
Stupid managers. Stupid college campus. Stupid _everything_.

  
He doesn't have the ~~guts~~ heart to call the guy back to check, so he just gets out of the car, slings the pizza bag over his shoulder, and starts jogging up the stairs of the nearest building. It'll help him warm up, at least.

 

Ten minutes later, he finally finds the right apartment - top floor, third building he’d checked (Jean used to be in track so at least he’s fit enough to handle this) and he bangs on the door.

  
"Marco’s," he wheezes - a few moments later, there’s the pound of running feet and the apartment next door opens cautiously. A man is giving him a quizzical look, colors in his face bleached out by the light of the completely pointless bug zapper suspended as a lantern a few feet away.

  
"That’s me? But… I didn't order any pizza."  His freckled face contorts in a scowl, hair dark and a little messy. 

  
Jean gives him an equally confused look. ”Hah?”

  
The rumpled man taps his chest with his thumb, looking enviably warm and drowsy. "I’m Marco."

  
 _Oh._ Rolling his eyes, Jean taps the embroidery on his polo. ”No, Marco’s is the name of the pizza joint. Sorry." Then he adds, tasteless as ever and too damn cold for tact, "not for you.” 

  
"Oh."

  
Jean clicks his tongue in a sympathetic sort of manner, shifts his weight and glances at the other door.  It's not quiet behind there, but it also doesn't sound like the door's about to open, so he turns his honey-hazel eyes back on the neighbor. There’s an awkward silence as they share eye contact, like they were in the middle of a conversation that had been abruptly cut off - the man who shares the same name as his place of work is leaning subtly in the doorframe, watching him openly.  Jean contemplates saying something, but nothing really comes to mind. Moments later, they're interrupted anyway.

  
The correct apartment door opens, and an obviously drunk girl gives Jean a dirty look.  Her off-blonde hair is messy, green eyes bloodshot; she looks vicious and suspiciously familiar.  Jean braces himself for a face full of angry ex-girlfriend.

  
"You’re the pizza man? You’re supposed to be _way_ hotter."

  
Irked, Jean’s barely able to bite off a vicious reply as he catches the scent of baked goods, sweat and booze. Rough night, apparently.  He'd like to sass back, but he also would like to have the money to pay tuition, and this job and this education means more to him than his ego.  Professionalism wins out, and he attempts to recover from the slight.  ”Pizza’s still hot, though. Sorry about the delay—”

  
She slams the door in his face, shouting back to someone as the deadbolt squeals back into place, “I don’t want no fucking creepy ass pizza guy, Mina!”

  
Jean stands at the door for a few long more seconds, more out of horror than the hope that his customer will come back and actually pay for their pizza. He almost feels like he sways on his feet for a moment, then heaves a sigh and rubs the bridge of his nose before he remembers that his fingers are absolutely freezing.  Damn it.

  
"Wow," chimes in a gentle voice. "That sucks."

  
Jean glances sideways to the source of the commentary.  Marco, aka the nosy next door neighbor, is still standing there. His expression is one so profoundly concerned that Jean decides to just forgo any attempts to remedy the situation with his previous customer.  She doesn't seem to want to be bothered - especially if he really _does_ know her - so it's better for everyone if he just puts on some chapstick in the car in preparation to kiss Erwin’s ass when he returns.

  
"You like supreme?" He offers the box, which is actually still a little warm on the bottom.  A little.  Barely. 

  
Marco’s eyes widen. "Y-yeah, but—"

 

"Take it, then. I hate supreme, and it’s literally got your name on it." And it did. ’ _Marco’s_ ’ was printed on the box in bright, cheery letters, and it makes the other man smile. It's a warm expression, and for a moment Jean doesn't feel the chill so keenly.

  
"… If you insist. Hang on, let me pay you." Marco vanishes indoors, closing the door gently behind him.

  
"You don’t have to," Jean adds belatedly, not all that sincere and starting to feel a little paranoid that he was going to get ditched twice in one night. His ears strain to hear the lock on the door, but Marco just returns with the checkbook.

  
"How much for the pizza?"

  
"6.90. It’s our weekend special. Really popular with freshman and the kinds of assholes who still laugh at six-nine jokes." Again a little late, Jean notices Marco’s shoulders shaking in amusement. “Uh.”

 

Well, he just kind of indirectly called the guy buying someone else's pizza off him an asshole.  He wouldn't be surprised to see his check torn up, but Marco just glances up from his checkbook with a faint grin before continuing to write and... was he blushing?  Nah, surely not.

  
"Who do I make this out to?"

  
"Marco’s Pizza, 224 Trost Street Branch—"

  
It’s hard to tell in the washed out, blueish glow but Jean wonders if Marco’s ears don’t get a little redder. ”N-no, I meant  _your_ name.”

  
"…Oh. Jean Kirschtein. K-I-R-S-C-H-T-E-I-N," he dictates awkwardly as Marco writes, signs, and tears off the check with a decisive motion. Jean takes the paper in his cold, cold fingers and tucks it carefully into his pocket.

  
In return, Marco takes the offered pizza and flashes Jean with a bright, warm smile. ”Thanks for the pizza, Jean.  See you around?”

  
"Mmm, sure. It’s really good pizza, so maybe you’ll think about actually ordering on purpose some time. Not like you'll forget the name or anything, right?"  Jean laughs at his own joke, like he usually does, but he doesn't laugh alone. Marco's eyes are bright and happy when he laughs, and Jean's own smile lingers for a breath longer than it might have.

  
He rocks back on his heels a bit, still holding eye contact. It’s kind of weird, but in the good kind of weird - until Marco shivers and he notices the man’s bare feet and worn pajamas.  Oh.  Yeah, he should... probably get going.

  
"You've got my number.  Catch you later," and he pivots and jogs back down the stair without another word, somehow feeling a bit warmer. This sensation is helped, of course, by the fact that the check in his pocket is his for 10 bucks and 69 cents and he almost cries with joy in the car.  Privately, he actually does hope that they'll see each other again.  Long shot though it is.

   
Pfft.  And pigs will fly.


	2. Don't Drop That Title Title (Ayyyyyy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eren is just as dramatic in this pizza au as he is in the anime, just less tragic. he absolutely dropped to the floor and cried like he'd just run over a puppy when he burned those breadsticks. levi might also have kicked him in the face but what happens in the kitchen stays in the kitchen except for all the food.

He’s only a half an hour away from the end of his shift, and Jean can _smell_ freedom. Freedom today happens to smell like burnt breadsticks, half because he gets to take them home and have them for a free dinner and half because Eren’s the one who burned them and got chewed out by Levi. So when the phone rings and he realizes he’s the only delivery man left on shift, he actually considers hanging up on the customer.  It's been a long day, and if he answers the phone it's going to get even longer.  
  
And of course, like the whipped dog he is, he answers the phone anyway.

  
"Marco’s Pizza, authentic Italian delivered to your door, this is Jean speaking."

  
 _"Oh!"_  The voice on the other end is soft and oddly familiar.  _"Wow, I got really lucky. Unless there’s more than one Jean. Uh, is this Jean Kirschtein?"_

  
"Yeah…?"  Jean furrows his brows, desperately trying to think of where he might know this guy from. In the kitchen, Eren peers at him with an expression of ‘ _what the fuck man just take the goddamn order already before something else goes wrong with today_ ’ and frankly, Jean agrees with him. But it’s his job and Erwin’s probably monitoring the call somewhere, and blah blah blah.

  
_"It’s Marco. From apartment 15? Last week?"_

  
And then the memory falls into place and Jean nods before remembering that no one can see you nodding into the phone (except Eren who has the grace to muffle his guffaws if only a little) and answers eloquently, “Oh. Yeah, I remember. How was it?”

  
_"Really good, actually, so I’m calling back for more. If it’s all right, I mean. Uh, can I get a medium pan pizza and… what toppings do you usually get, Jean?"_

  
Now that's an odd question.  "Hold on one second," he offers, then waves to get Eren's attention as he claps his hand over the mouthpiece.  "Yo, Eren?"

  
The green eyed cook's quizzical look is even stupider-looking than usual due to some minor swelling high on his cheekbone via unspecified kitchen accident just today. "Yeah?"

  
"I just got asked for topping recommendations, what should I say?"

  
"Why you asking me, dude?"

  
"Because I _apparently_ don't have a proper sense of taste, or do you not remember the reason Levi painted a line between the desk and the kitchen?"

  
Eren laughed at the memory.  "Oh yeah, I do now.  Uh... How about Double Sausage?!"

  
Jean gave Eren a dry look as he ponders where he heard that title before, then it hits him.

  
One of the other assistant managers, an androgynous genius named Hanji, had locked all of the new staff in a dark room and, for their 'training' video, had made them all watched a terribly written and terribly acted homosexual porno that literally involved a dick hole in a pizza box.  That porn had been named, by reasons not too hard to understand, 'Double Sausage' and while horrific had made Jean question his sexuality for a few hours afterward.  For the sole reason, he would argue if prompted, that getting into the erotic film industry suddenly seemed like a much better career choice than working at _Marco's Pizza_.

  
"Dude, I don't think--"

 

_"Can I get that large and with extra cheese?"_

  
  
"... What?"

  
_"You said double sausage, right?  Well, can I get a large pizza with double sausage and extra cheese?"_

  
Jean snorts suddenly, painfully, as he attempts to keep in the sudden explosion of shocked laughter. The voice on the other end is worried, soothing, and almost entirely drowned out by Eren’s raucous cackles.  
 _"Is everything okay?"_

  
"Yeah, fine," Jean wheezes into the receiver, feeling equal parts guilty and amused like he’d just watched a small animal fall down the stairs.  Poor kid doesn't know what true horror lurks behind that name, and he'd feel bad if pity was really his thing. "Pizza’ll be there in about 45 minutes. See you then."

  
And it takes another two minutes to calm both employees down, and it’s only in the awkward silence as Jean and Eren resume their roles as Best Frenemies that Jean realizes this means that he’s going to be working past his hours.

 

Well, fuck him hard, fast and sideways.

 

 

* * *

 

  
His drive to Marco’s apartment is as fast as he can make it, since he’s been given exactly 30 minutes of overtime and even that was about as much fun as pulling his fingernails out by the roots. He'd had to beg it from the assistant manager Levi, whose day had already been soured by Eren’s ineptitude at breadstick-baking. It's a 15 minute drive one way but he's got the advantage of having been there before, and with all that in mind he’s _still_ a good five minutes late.

  
Jean sprints up the steps, pizza bag carefully balanced on his hip, and raps his knuckles on the door before he’s even stopped to catch his breath.

  
"Your pizza," he pants as Marco opens the door, dressed in jeans and a simple dark green tee shirt. "Still hot."

  
"It sure is," Marco remarks, taking the pizza and placing it somewhere just inside the door. Then he stands there, expectantly, and waits - weight shifted like he's leaning in the doorway again.  Jean's still got his hands on his knees, but after a moment he glances up, vaguely concerned.  All he can see are long legs swathed in thick jersey fabric. Marco's expression is too placid for him to be upset, too calm to be asking for a favor.

Jean’s not too winded to raise an eyebrow skeptically in Marco's direction. "Dude, it may have your name on the box but I still need payment."

  
"Oh, y-yeah, but… you’re off now, right?"

  
"No, I got overtime to deliver this… Oh.”

  
It dawns on him suddenly, awkwardly, that Marco had expected both delivery man and pizza for dinner.  The concept of a double sausage pizza is forever further tarnished in his mind. What if Marco had known the reference and expected him to--

  
No.

  
God no.

  
Never the less, he asks for clarification. "Was this supposed to be a... date?"

  
"No, no!" Marco’s eyes widen and he takes a step back, fumbling around on a small table beside the door for something - his checkbook and a pen, Jean notices. "It’s just - well, when I called earlier I spoke to someone called Hanji and they told me when you were getting off and I wanted to thank you for the pizza last time so I figured—"

  
"Shit," Jean swears. "Fuck," he adds as he glances at his watch. "I have to be back at work in five minutes. Listen," and he locks eyes with Marco as he accepts the check, "I’ve got to get going but, we’ll— I’ll call you or something and talk to you about my shitty ass boss but not right now.  I will be back, I swear."

  
Marco nods, still looking fairly bashful. “I’ll keep the pizza warm for you?”

  
"Sure," he agrees automatically, already jogging back down the stairs to his still-idling car. "Later!"

 


	3. Bottoms Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fact number one: at least 50% of the people in this scene have seen 'double sausage delivery'  
> fact number two: about the same number of people adore jean's ass in his khaki pants  
> fact number three: these two statistics may or may not form a venn diagram with marco squarely in the middle

  
It's a half an hour drive back from Marco's apartment complex to the pizzaria, and it's another twenty minutes to clock out and jog home, and when he factors in the forty-five minute bike ride back to Marco's apartment it's barely worth the cost of food.

But he knows that if he doesn't do it, it's going to just eat at him the rest of the week. Maybe longer.

Also Hanji dropped some pretty obvious hints when he'd gotten back to work, phrases like ' _you should befriend him he can be our new mascot_ ,' and ' _his name is marco it is your manifest destiny_ ' and maybe also muttered quietly so that Levi didn't hear _'free medium pizza if you get him to come back_.'  All these factors have piled up until he was biking in the frigid October night with his fleece jacket zipped up to his ears and his beanie pulled down to his brow.

 _The Headless Horseman._ If he focuses, he can hear his roomate's joke still howling in his ears with the frigid wind.

But he makes it there eventually, chains his bike to the nearest lamp-post (the cops in this town are fairly lax about bike laws, thank god) and jogs up the stairs on legs that are starting to wobble from the strain. It takes him a moment to remember which door is Marco's, but he raps on it with weary knuckles momentarily.

The pause between the sound of his knock fading and the door actually opening seems longer than it has in previous times. And a little less silent? In fact, it sounds oddly like conversation in there, or a TV. Whatever. Jean's been promised free pizza (he's even kind enough to contribute his slightly-burned breadsticks to the meal, paper bag gripped tight in his hand) and damn, he wants Marco's double sausage.

That...

That did not sound right. Not even in his head.

The door opens, eventually, and Marco opens it about a third of the way, his face obviously confused.

"...Jean?"

He tugs off his beanie and shoves it in his pocket, ruffling his hair back into its typical style with the hopes of Marco recognising him.  "Yeah, sorry I didn't call or whatever, and it's probably a bit too late for the pizza to still be hot but do you have any left?"

"Y-yeah, it's in the fridge?" Marco asks, like Jean would know any better than he would about the contents of the refrigerator. "Clear box with a red lid..."

"Great, thanks," and Jean scoots through the space between Marco and the doorway to head for the kitchen - which is thankfully directly to the left of the door. He finds the fridge without much difficulty, but when he's actually leaning over to peer through the maze of juice bottles, produce items in significantly less decay than his at home, and neat containers of leftovers, a female voice chimes in.

"Hey, while you're in there, Supreme, could you get me a beer?"

Jean pauses in the act of retrieving said pizza - slowly, he straightens and pivots, then steps into the hallway where Marco is standing very still and watching him. As are two other people in the living room directly to the right of the entry, one a girl with cinnamon colored hair and the other a boy with a buzz cut. The boy he recognises from his math class and also from down the hall; same major, but they've only ever really exchanged words at floor meetings or casual conversations in the bathroom.

"Oh. Hey."

Connie, the boy, stays silent. The unnamed girl stays silent. Everyone stays silent. This is probably one of the most awkward situations he's ever been in.

He'd been right about the TV thing, though - something was paused on the screen. Jean bravely trucks on through his one-sided conversation, pointing eloquently at the TV. "Is that--"

"Star Wars." Marco answers for his guests - Connie's whispering something to the girl, who's crunching chips loudly enough to mask their conversation. So much for his breadsticks.  Or contribution.  Or just inclusion in general to the meal.

"Damn. Uh, sorry, I didn't really think about... anything, really." Jean turns to Marco, still holding the pizza but by now, somewhat apologetically. "I'll just head home since you've got... people over. Or whatever."  He's actually somewhat hoping that Marco will forget he's still holding the pizza and he can sneak home with the tidy little container tucked into his jacket.

"No, you can stay. If you want to, I mean." Marco shifts his weight, subtly pushes the door closed. "I did ask you to stay earlier, so long as you don't mind that we're about 30 minutes into the movie. This is Sasha, by the way, and Connie--"

"I know Connie. He lives in my dorm."

Finally, Connie reacts to the situation - by slinking back down to a seating position on the couch and turning back to the TV. Sasha bundles up the bag of chips and throws it at Marco, missing by miles and throwing salt and potato chip crumbles everywhere.

"If no one's getting me a beer--" She starts, loudly.

"You're barely 19," Marco chides, leaning over to snatch up the chip bag with an older-sibling sort of weariness.

"--I deserve more pizza."

Jean's hand protectively tightens on the box of pizza, until Marco catches his wrist gently. "Sasha, you can have root beer. The pizza is Jean's favorite."

"Oh yeah? What's your favorite kind of pizza, _Jeeeeeeeen_?"

And of course, the joke would come back to bite him. Jean feels his ears growing hot as he storms into the kitchen to find the microwave.

"Double sausage with extra cheese."

Connie cackles loudly from the living room as Jean watches the pizza rotate slowly in the microwave, contemplating murder. Or suicide. Or just theft by taking the pizza and running.  But his exit is blocked by Marco, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, watching Jean with intent brown eyes. He feels the need to explain himself, or at least apologise as he struggles out of his jacket, feeling his shirt ride half way up his ribcage before he's free of the garment.  Fixing his shirt, he hands Marco the jacket - and the breadsticks - awkwardly.

"Sorry for crashing your party."

The apartment's owner smiles, one freckled cheek almost dimpling on the side.  "Don't be. You'd kind of been invited all along, really. The whole mix up's probably my fault though, I guess it's kind of weird to invite the pizza delivery man to your house after hours..."

The microwave beeps, but Jean almost doesn't hear it for a moment. His eyebrows furrow as he gives Marco a long, hard look. It's vaguely similar to the dialogue that played out in the porno he'd tried to sneak in a reference too, but...

"Yeah, a little," he finishes, deciding to ignore it for the moment and carry his pizza out to the living room, "but I guess for you it's part of the package deal."

... Wow, that sounded way less gay in his head.  What is even wrong with him?  God, if he's actually as horny as he is hungry, this evening is going to suck.  

Jean manages to swing his body over the top of the couch without seriously damaging anything (except Connie, who was still hidden by the back of the couch and who almost got crushed.) Marco joins them moments later, a cold six-pack of hard apple cider in his hand which he sets down on the coffee table in favor of grabbing the remote.  He doesn't even react when the girl grabs one of his bottles in a very obvious way, holding eye contact as she pops the bottle open.  Marco doesn't even give her a second glance, settling in the minimal space he can find between Jean and the arm of the couch.

"I thought you said--" Connie starts, confused. Marco snatches up a bottle, nearly tears it open and takes a huge drink.

"I know what I said, just... shut up and watch the movie, all right?"

Jean follows Marco's example, sandwiched somewhat between the other two males, and settles himself into the couch with a feeling of contentment. Free food, free booze; there's a lot of things he'll put up with for this. Including but not limited to Connie Springer acting like a five year old and bickering with the girl (what was her name again?) over the finer points of the relationship between Padme and Anakin while their host acts like he's trying to actively drown himself with booze.

Take the good with the bad, he guesses. And _god_ , free food was a mighty strong good.


	4. Should Have Asked For His Number

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't think of a title better than Jean's own euphemisms.

Jean wakes up horribly disoriented.

He'd been having a dream where he started off as Han Solo shooting green-skinned and google-eyed Erens, which had twisted and turned and he'd switched plots and identities until he was about to be actually baked into a double sausage pizza. Just before he's put into the oven is when he stirs and realizes he's not in his own bed; his 'pillow' is warm and firm and, when he attempts to roll over, is damp with saliva. He wants to go back to sleep at first, but then the pillow breathes and the weight on his lower back shifts and he becomes much more awake.

He's also, and he feels this when he braces his hand on the pillow and sits up, still slightly drunk. There's a soft shifting amber hue to everything, which he notices is the DVD menu for Star Wars on mute flickering across a TV screen, and it further cements the thought that ' _this is not my room._ '

Then all the pieces fall into place around the same time he makes eye contact with the man he's been sleeping - and drooling on - for god knows how long, and also who owns the apartment he's in and bought the - five? six? - apple beers he downed along with the pizza. Jean still leans in a little too close to the other's face just to be sure of his identity.

"Mah-co?"

"Marco," clarifies his pillow, sounding a little breathless. That may or may not have had something to do with the fact that Jean's entire upper body weight was being supported by the hand on Marco's drool-damp chest, their legs tangled together somewhat and--

"Shit, fuck, what time is it?"

Marco shushes him and gestures behind Jean, where Connie and Sasha - he'd learned her name just to have something to call her while throwing popcorn at her when she mimicked alien accents - are tangled together on the floor and snoring softly. He then pulls his phone out of his pocket and flashes the display.

'1:41am' decorates the screen, along with a photograph of a crisp blue sky taken somewhere on campus. Jean groans and braces himself on the back of the couch and Marco's chest, struggling to free himself from the warm limbs and recover at least some of his dignity. The last time he'd gotten drunk and woken up with someone, they'd had the decency of being naked and in his bed.

He deliberately chooses not to consider what it would be like to wake up in such a situation with Marco.

"I've got work in the morning," he whispers as Marco sits up, dark eyes tracking the blond as Jean hunts for his jacket in the dark and ends up just walking into the wall. A hand brushes the small of his back, and he's being guided into the kitchen where Marco flips on a little light over the sink and grabs a cup from the dish drainer.

"Here, if you're gonna be driving you'd better get some water in you first." His expression shifts to concern as he fills up the cup from the tap and passes it off to Jean, who sips on it thankfully. "You... you did drive here, right?"

"Nope. Biked."

The concern deepens and he sighs.  "I'll drive you then. It's really cold out and I couldn't let you bike home drunk."

"Are you good to drive?" His own head still feels a little fuzzy, and he leans back against the wall as he swallows. "I don't remember, like, a ton, but you had almost as much to drink as I did."

Marco chuckles, bracing his hands against the sink and mimicking Jean's posture. "I'm kind of a light weight, but alcohol also doesn't linger with me too much. I'll be fine."

The blond shrugs, lolling his head to the side and watching the brunet out of the corner of his eye. Marco can't seem to hold his gaze, glancing down and to the side but always back again until he grabs another cup. It takes him a few tries to actually fill it up with water, but he eventually does and takes a long chug. His adam's apple bobs with the motion, and Jean is starting to remember what it's like when he's drunk. Which is, frankly put, horny as fuck.

So he takes a drink of his own, closes his eyes and tries to focus on the reality of the situation and less on any potential, risque fantasies involving someone he's met all of twice. Guy or not, it's rude.

"Hey, sorry if I was a little... weird earlier."

"Weird?"

"You know, when I was drunk. Or more drunk." Jean swills the water around his cup, trying to look serious and thoughtful, but he swills a little too enthusiastically and some water splatters across the floor. "I'm kind of a randy drunk, so hopefully I didn't like. Get too obnoxious. I mean I know I was kind of argumentative and touchy but like, I didn't--"

"No, you were fine. Well, you didn't bother me, but maybe I'm just used to worse. My roommate's boyfriend is really bad with personal space when he's wasted, so anything below his level doesn't... I don't really notice it, you know?"

Jean purses his lips in a line and nods sagely. "Good to know."

"You're welcome to come back anytime, really-- I mean, so long as my roommate is alright with it. But yeah, let's get you home."

Marco places the cup back in the dish drainer, and Jean follows suit; with the faint light from the kitchen and the combined lights of their phones, they find their jackets and promptly bundle up.  Jean takes a moment to check his pockets for his keys - both sets there, and his wallet - then follows the brunet out into the cold. The hallway is covered in a light dusting of snow, and almost immediately Jean's shoe skids across the concrete.

"Shit on a dick," he swears as Marco locks the door behind them, and he grabs at the light fixture until he has his balance back, "it's slicker than my ex girlfriend the week before her period."

His companion's face is a little redder after that, but he can't tell if it's from the cold or not.  

"We should be fine once we reach the stairs. They're pretty good about salting those." Marco sticks his elbow out at an awkward angle, and Jean gives him the bewildered stare such an action deserves. After a moment, the brunet shrugs and heads to the stairs with his arms normal and his pace slow and mostly steady. Jean follows him, only a little wobbly since he's usually got an excellent sense of balance when sober.  They survive the stairs with ease, and the parking lot manages to feels safer to walk on than the apartment hallways but Jean still manages to fill the gentle silence of the winter night with a continuous stream of increasingly creative profanity.

Marco's car is a simple, safe looking station wagon dusted with powdery white snow that the brunet starts brushing off the windows with his sleeve as Jean jogs to the lightpost to retrieve his bicycle.

"Will this fit in the backseat, or you want it, like, attached to the roof or something?" he calls back, shaking snow off the loyal little device.

"It'll fit in the back, I think," and Marco waves them both over and opens the back door with grace. Jean bundles the vehicle inside the other, lubricating the action well with a variety of muttered curses, then they were finally on their way.

"Oh, fuck, are these heated seats?" Jean pants as he settles into shotgun.

Marco chuckles as he puts the car into drive and heads out of the parking lot. "Yeah. Where do you--"

"Sina dorms," he gasps, and groans as he tries to burrow his way deeper into the seats. "Oh my god. _Oh my god_."

"Are... are you gonna be okay?"

His eyelids flutter closed as he melts into the slowly warming surface that was all the joy of a hot bath but with none of the wet or naked. "Fuck going home man, I wanna sleep in these seats."

He receives a distracted little laugh in return, and side eyes the brunet again only to get caught up in the movement of lights outside the windows. There's the blurriness typical of snowfall and it smears with the lights of cars and traffic lights like an abstract urban Christmas photograph. It takes a hand waving in his field of vision to get his attention again.

"Mmm, sorry, what's that?"

Patiently, Marco repeats his question as he glances in all his mirrors, flicking on the turn signal with a smooth motion.  "I asked what year you were."

"Oh. I'm uh, a sophomore."

"Majoring in what?"

"Double major. I'm in creative writing and business."

"Really? That's an odd mix."

Jean rolls his eyes and readies the speech. "Well, I wanted something practical so I went with business, but I'm also a really big fan of video games and films so I wanted to get into script writing. So I'm double majoring."

"And you've got a part time job?"  At his nod, Marco smiles and shakes his head a little bit. "That sounds like a lot of work."

"It keeps me busy, yeah, but hopefully it'll all pay off in the end. And I mean that literally because my student loans are gonna suck ass. How about you?"

He taps his fingers on the steering wheel and chances Jean a shy little grin.  "I'm in education, with a pre-k focus."

"Really?"

"Yeah, man, I just... I really like working with kids, you know? I've got a summer job helping to teach swimming at the YMCA back home, and I used to help out in my churches' daycare."  His shoulders shift and Jean gets the feeling that, if his hands were free, the faintly freckled brunet would be hiding behind them.  "They're just... I don't really know how to explain it. They're just so _cute_ and it's such a big responsibility because everything is so new to them, I want to make sure that they start off their lives in the best way possible."

Jean tilts the seat back and rolls onto his seat, grinning anyway. "God, whatever, you sap, wake me up when we get to Sina."

"Okay." He waits a moment then Marco shakes his shoulder gently, pitching his voice low as the car stops. "Psst, Jean, we're here."

"Eat a dick."

He sits up and unbuckles his seat belt as his chauffeur mutters something under his breath that he doesn't quite catch, but before he can ask what he missed Marco gives him a broad, startlingly genuine smile.

"Hey, tonight was fun."

Jean smirks as jerks his bike out of the back seat, leaving the front door to the car standing wide open as he wrestles with his preferred method of transportation. It takes him a little longer this time, but Marco doesn't offer and Jean doesn't ask for help, and despite the disparity between the temperature of the air and of the heated seat he'd been in moments before, he's not in as big of a hurry he expected.

"Yeah, loads."

It finally comes free and he slaps the back door closed, returning to the front to half lean in the car and nod at the brunet.

"I'll see you around, I guess."

Marco takes in a breath like he's about to say something, but Jean's already in the middle of closing the door - and by the time his brain catches up, the car's already pulling away. He stands there for a moment in the cold, white starting to drift down again, and he tells himself he feels this way because he's drunk and it's the first snowfall of the year.

Yeah, totally.


	5. Make It Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is officially just an excuse to string together as many of those College AU scenarios I can into one barely-cohesive 'verse
> 
> also this is dedicated to the dear sweet [Michelle](http://enjouji.tumblr.com/) who is disturbingly fond of it. why tho?? why. but for michelle i will so oh so many things.
> 
> (i'll proof it later idk)

He's pulled a few late nights this week. Or nights that just kind of tumbled stressfully into morning as he slaved on papers and panicked over citing sources and websites not loading until he's passing out with his forehead on the keyboard. To make things worse, his room mate had finished his round of exams before Jean had, and was currently probably having victory sex with his girlfriend in their dorm rooms.

Jean stretches, back slightly sore from sitting in the plush chair in the underground library for so long, two-hundred dollar and twenty-pound textbook open in his lap and a host of butchered post-it notes for bookmarks littering the pages. He wouldn't mind some victory sex - or pity sex, or _any_ kind of sex really - but he also knows that in this state the moment his skin hit the sheets he'd be asleep.

So, really, he doesn't mind that he's down in the underground libraries in that unholy interval between an acceptably late night and a reasonably early morning, because at this point in time he doesn't care where his physical body is. He has _transcended_ it.

Midway through his math homework, while he's trying to remember what the 'x' symbol in math means and attempting to Google it, Jean notices someone hovering a few feet away and a little off to one side. They're doing that rather distinctive shuffle he's learned from working the cash register, one of indecision but a desire to approach. So he looks up. Blinks once or twice and tries to get his bloodshot eyes to focus. And then, it clicks and he takes in long legs, sturdy hips, a pillowy coat and eyes that match chocolate-brown hair and cinnamon freckles.

"Oh, it's the pizza guy."

If he wasn't so completely exhaustion-shit-faced, Jean would realize the irony of his own mouth saying those words, but it's something like 6 in the morning and the last time Jean closed his eyes for more than ten minutes was something like 4am yesterday. Maybe two days ago.

Anyway, Marco is standing there and watching Jean, cup of coffee in his hand and eyebrows forming a little divot of curiosity in his forehead.

"Hey, you, uh... You look a little worn out, is everything all right?"

Jean glances down and checks his hands. "Nope, the left one's still here too."

He means it at a joke, but he kind of forgets to smile. Or laugh. At least Marco forgets too, and offers the cup to Jean.  The smell is laced with more sugar and less cream than he prefers, but it's coffee.  Holy shit, it's coffee.  For him.  At 6 in the morning.

"Oh, thank God." Jean pats the armchair beside him - he might miss once or twice but Marco gets the hint anyway and joins him in the relatively empty library - and takes a swig. It's still pretty damn hot, but he doesn't really care. He's had worse. "Sorry, midterms. At least I think that's what this bullshit it. I've got one left but..."

He gestures at the indecipherable notes in his lap, spread out in his binder and written sideways in some places.  Marco leans in, tilting his head and scowling, then tosses Jean's coffee cup a look.

"What's the subject?"

"You know? I'm not even sure anymore." Jean takes another sip and slouches deeper in the chair. He feels his butt continuing to inch towards the edge of the seat as gravity, but he just lets it happen. Marco's fingers tap on the arm of Jean's chair. "How have you been?'

He shrugs, settling deeper into his chair and crossing his legs. "I just finished the last of my exams yesterday, and um... well, i've got class in about an hour but it got canceled so I figured I might get a head start on my other homework."

His eyes are still on the coffee cup, following the motion as Jean takes another drink, then they stay on Jean's face.  Jean sips more coffee and watches him watch the movement again, licking some of the hot drink off his lips.

Then it dawns on him - too late, though. By this time, Jean's just about polished off the cup of coffee. Some of it splatters his notes as he drops the cup in shock, blood draining from his face.

"Oh, fuck, I just-- _I stole your coffee_."

Marco grabs the cup before it can tip over and totally empty its still-very-warm contents everywhere. He looks sheepish, ivory teeth bared in an uncomfortable smile as he gives Jean a pitying gaze. "It's not a big deal, it sounds like you need it more than I do."

"No." Jean slams his notebook closed - his notes were trash anyway, who cares if the coffee splatters ruin them - and wrestles it into his backpack. "No, I'm buying you another one. Shit, I'm so sorry."

"If you're buying me one, I'm buying you another," and Marco beats Jean to his feet, all ready to go and smiling a little easier now.

"That's not how it works, you asshole."

But when Marco offers Jean a hand up he accepts it; that, and a gentle grip on his elbow that slides down his forearm when Jean proves himself steady enough to walk. Jean's just yanking his knit cap on with one hand when they step back into the early morning chill.

The sun's not up yet, but all the stars are gone. A charcoal color paints the sky like an empty canvas or a cavity where something once belonged, and when Jean blows a puff of coffee-flavored air it turns a faint misty shade. He keeps taking little sips as he follows Marco, content to trail behind him and trusting his companion to prevent him from walking into traffic as he fiddles with his phone. It feels a little bit like following his mom - Marco's taller than he is, not by a lot but he notices - and he doesn't hesitate

"Sasha works at Stohess, is it okay if we go there?"

"Hm? Yeah, sure," and he keeps scrolling down his phone, trying desperately to cram every last bit of information from Lagnar's horror novella Between the Teeth before his literature exam. Marco's even kind enough to hold the door for him when they get inside, and everything is just peachy.

Until Jean catches sight of the prices, and holy shit. One coffee's nearly half the price of a large pizza, and judging by the size of the cup Jean's holding, Marco got a large. Well, once exams, he can just skip meals by sleeping.

The brunette from the Star Wars marathon is indeed behind the counter, and her eyes go super wide as Jean walks up with Marco at his shoulder.

"Hey, I stole his coffee, can you just, " and Jean waves the cup around, flinging a few last droplets of coffee dangerously near a professor, "remake whatever that is?"

"Oh," and for some reason she gives an enormous wink to Marco, "no problem. Your total comes to, um..."

Sasha - he has to check the name tag, and it's written with little swirls and a :) face besides it - smacks some commands into the registers, then chirps, "3.73."

Jean's eyebrows jump up, and because he's tired and not thinking right, he blurts out "but the sign says a large coffee's 7 bucks."

"Well, it's um... It's red beanie Thursday!"

"... What?"

"Yeah, um, on the first Thursday of the month anyone who comes in wearing a red beanie gets half off. Um, if it's over five dollars?" She glances over Jean's shoulder, then back to him. "Yeah, whatever, just gimme the cash."

His eyebrows jump up for a while, but even that's too much effort to maintain, so he shrugs and just lets the discount happen.  Does this mean he now owes Marco two coffees? Whatever. He forks over the money and collects his change, shoving his wallet back in his pocket as he turns to a rather pink-cheeked Marco and they step out of line.

"I'll have to write that down or something. Hey, if you know Sasha-with-a-smiley-face then why didn't she tell you about the special? Where's your hat?"

"Oh, um, I'm not really," Marco rubs the back of his neck and avoids Jean's eyes, "not m-much of a hat... person? It just kind of makes my skin itchy. It's weird. Anyway, what do you want?"

"I'm not letting you-- ah, _shit_." Jean gestures at the clock, already zipping up his coat again. "I'm gonna be late for a class, sorry, enjoy your coffee and I'll see you around!"

He all but sprints out the door, since he has to be on the other side of campus in three minutes, but at the door he glances over his shoulder. Marco's standing alone, a little half-smile on his face and one hand raised. But Jean really doesn't have time to stay, so he runs across the street and nearly gets hit on the way.

And the whole class period, even as he's circling answers on the exam for their literature class, he can't shake the feeling that he's forgetting something important. He runs his hands across his body - wallet, check, phone, check.  Backpack at his ankle.  Right class, right time.  So then... what?

 

* * *

 

The next day, it's raining. Jean's umbrella is a little worse for wear, especially as Trost gets really windy and half the umbrellas on campus have flipped inside-out at least once in their harried little umbrella-lives, but it does it's job. At least until he's messing around with the lock on his bike, on a rack suspiciously empty and close to the road, and a bus comes by.

A tidal wave of gritty, filthy, puddle water hits Jean's umbrella with an audible smack, crashing over his and completely soaking him from the thighs on down. It's cold enough to shock the breath out of his lungs, but the moment he can breathe again he's swearing like a sailor and pedaling home. Fuck his last class of the day, it's Friday and he needs to get home and get dry.

Wet clothes in October mean colds. Colds mean potentially not being able to work. Not being able to work means not being able to eat, go to school, buy coffee for that one guy who keeps showing up in his life under the strangest of circumstances. All of these are things that he kind of wants to keep doing.

But, despite his fastest biking with cold, numb toes, umbrella over his shoulder as he bikes one-handed, Jean is still already starting to feel trashy by the time he's back at the dorms. He chains up his bike with shaking hands, takes the elevator and has to hear his shoes squealing like adolescent pigs with every step, and strips in the dorm floor bathroom.

One hot shower accompanied by several sneezes later, Jean's strapping a disposable face mask across his nose and mouth, hiding the whole getup under a scarf, and biking to work anyway.

 

* * *

 

It's Friday and Eren's got pneumonia, so they'd been glad for Jean's help. Most of the senior crew are working tonight - Jean and Petra make the delivery runs and man the phones, Eld and Gunther have been tag-teaming in the kitchen, and Mike's been at the register or anywhere else they've needed him. And a couple hours into his shift, as Jean furtively sneaks back to the break room to guzzle Eren's Capri-Suns with the intent of vitamin C intake, he's interupted by Mike's booming voice from up front.

"Hey, Jean, we got another delivery. Think you can take it?"

The absurdly tall man's supervising this evening, which is the best possible option. Levi would have sent Jean home even though he's not actually sick yet, Hanji would have made him sit down and list his entire medical history while they flipped through their class notes, and Erwin's appearance means there's an emergency or they're catering a school event and either of those equal insane amounts of stress.

"Probably. Where?" Jean wipes his nose with a napkin before snapping the mask back on and approaching the kitchen.

Mike checks his notes. "1026 Tindle Road, Apartment 15."

"Marco?"

Gunther tosses some dough around gives him a wry smile. "You know the guy?"

"Yeah, he's gotten pizza like... well, technically this is the second time I'd be delivering to him but. It's. Well, you know those kind of people you kind of run into, just, like... everywhere?"

"Like fate?" chimes in Eld, shaking shredded cheese over a pizza.

"No. Probably not. Anyway, yeah. I know him. I think we might be friends."  Jean narrows his eyes and weighs their past interactions.  Yeah, you could probably call it that.  Huh.

Mike slaps him on the back. "Well, grab your coat and a set of keys and get going. Try not to dawdle, either, and avoid Venable Street. Petra says there's a traffic snafu."

Jean wraps his scarf around the lower half of his face, hiding the mask. "Got it. Be back as soon as I can."

It's still freezing outside, even if it had warmed up enough that the afternoon's precipitation had been rain and not snow. Jean sniffs and shivers in the cold, the icy pleather seats making him arch his back even as he buckles himself in and starts the car. The pizza, snug in its box, rides shotgun.

He wonders if it's the same thing Marco got last time, and if he's expected to eat with the freckled man again. Tough luck if he is - Jean is starting to feel kind of nauseous, and even if he had the time on a Friday night to chew the fat, he doesn't know if he could keep anything down.

Jean arrives without any issue, only trips a little on the way up and catches himself on the still-wet railing, and raps at door number 15. He's shaking, but it's not from nerves. Honestly.

No, really - he leans against the wall in the hallway and shivers again. Shit, he really is coming down with something.

The door opens, flooding the hallway with warmth and light as Marco, predictably, peers out dresses in sweatpants and sweatshirt. Jean shakes his head to wake himself up, then unzips the bag and fishes out the pizza.

"Fancy meeting you here again," he quips - Marco hands over the check with a small frown.

"Hey, are you all right? You look a little..."

Jean rolls his eyes and pulls his scarf down a little. "I got bussed today and I'm pretty sure I'm getting a cold. Don't worry, I didn't get germs all over your food."

"Oh no, you're sick? That's _terrible_." Marco's dark eyes widen. "They're making you work when you're sick?"

"I said I'm _getting_ sick, I'm not there yet." He sneezes, then makes a face as the mask makes his own saliva spatter back across his lips. "Ugh, and it's Friday, so we're swamped. I gotta go."

He waves and jogs back down the stairs to the sound of a barely audible 'bye' and the click of a lock. Yeah, it's getting really weird to keep running into this guy, and they are probably sliding awkwardly into the kind of relationship where, if you see each other in the street, you have to at least smile and wave. But Eld's suggestion of fate is completely absurd. It's all just a coincidence, is all.

Well, that, and damn good pizza.


	6. I Work 'til I Ache My Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what even is chapter title consistency because i don't know anymore, there is no pattern and no sense BUT my friends had some sads so HERE A RUSH ORDER
> 
> jean, like me, would crawl head-first into a dumpster if there was unopened packages of food down there amidst the rainwater and the dog shit

Jean doesn't think he actually really wakes up on Saturday. That is, he doesn't count it as consciousness when all he does is awkwardly gasp for air and hack up gobs of mucus for some indeterminate dark period, spending the rest of the time in between sweating and shivering under the blankets. His roommate shakes him once during that long black-out period, asks him something in what Jean would swear wasn't English, then melts into non-existence again.

Sickness usually hits him like this. One or two horrifically bad days and then he's better. It's kind of like having an elastic vitality, his mother probably said a few times. Jean may not be as immune as others, and he'll get hit hard and fast but he snaps back to normal at twice the recovery speed of most of his peers.

Around late afternoon, when the sun is gleaming through the blinds and casting barcodes of gold on the laundry-speckled floor, Jean manages to form a coherent thought. He reaches out of his lofted bunk to grab for his phone, which he keeps on top of the desk and within reasonable range of his pillow. Nearly drops the device the first time, snatching it up by the charging cord, and eventually he figures out how to dial his work place.

_"Marco's Pizza, this is Hanji speaking."_

"S'zhean," he slurs. "Can't come in. 'm sick. Maybe dead, i dunno how to check my pulse." He flops onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, but then nasal fluid starts draining into the back of his throat and he rolls back onto his stomach and coughs.

 _"Oooh noooooo,"_ Hanji croons into the phone. _"But it's Saturday."_

"Is it?" Jean finds a half-full glass of water on the top of his desk with no idea how it might have gotten there, and takes a swig. "I don't even know right now."

_"If you die, can I come dissect you?"_

"Only if I get overtime for it."

Hanji gives a little offended sound, then laughs. " _I'll get you covered. Get better, kid."_

Jean grumbles something that he prays sounds like "thank you" and huddles back under the covers.

* * *

 

When he wakes up again, he feels considerably better - of course, by that time it's 11am the next morning, so Jean showers and picks at homework and eventually drags himself to the dining courts. He snarfs up some mac and cheese, picks at a rather lack luster tomato soup, and sneaks a banana home in the middle pocket of his hoodie before slinking back home.

But there's a tall brunet seated in the dorm lobby, with a chill flush on his cheeks and a little grocery bag at his ankles. Bent over his phone, the shape of his nose looks oddly _familiar_ , and when Jean creeps forward, head tilted a little to the side, he can make out distinctive freckling.

He should not know this man's face so well by now.

"Marco?"

His loyal customer glances up, does a little double-take that has Jean biting back a flash of amusement, and his mouth parts in surprise.

"Jean? Wh-what are you doing out of bed?" Dark brown eyes look him over, as if to assure their owner that yes, this was the Real and Genuine Jean.

"I had to go eat," he relates, hands still in his pocket, toying with the banana at around crotch height. "Why are you here?"

"I, um--" Marco's cheeks get even redder, for some reason. "I was gonna get some food for the weekend so I called the pizza place, and someone whose name I didn't really, uh, really catch, she-- they said they'd heard about me and that you were sick?"

Jean raises an eyebrow. Even if he was well, he's not sure he'd be able to follow that train of thought. Marco glances back down again, worries his lower lip with his teeth.

"So I, um, I'm supposed to meet Connie down here because I got you soup."

"You..." Jean scowls because he wants to smile, an oddly warm feeling seeping through his chest like the return of his fever.  Man, fuck the shady and confusing circumstances that keep leading this guy to Jean - there is now more food involved.   _Free_ food.   _Nutritious_ food. "You got me soup?"

"Yeah," and he nudges the bag with his feet. "Just some, um, cans of it. I really, really cannot cook, so I just... I had to get some more groceries anyway, it's not a big deal--"

But Jean's already dropping to his knees in front of Marco and rooting through the bag eagerly. Cheese and broccoli, cream of tomato, and three whole cans of chicken and stars. Man, his fever must really be coming back after all, because he just kind of flumps down on the floor between Marco's legs and holds a can of soup in his hands like it's his newborn child. Affection, reverence; the little ribbed steel can he cups in his hands may as well hold a galaxy inside for all his emotions.  Marco brought him soup.

"Jean? You, uh...you all right down there?"

He thinks, _"chicken and stars soup is my favorite."_ He thinks, _"you might be my new best friend."_ He thinks a lot of things in a swirling, sick-blurry muddle but all he does he rest his forehead on one of Marco's knees.

"Carry me upstairs," he demands, with a tiny sly smile - just to see how far he can push this gooey toasted marshmallow of a man. The knee shifts, and Jean's cheekbone starts to slide along the inside of Marco's thigh before the brunet pulls away.

"Well, um... Yeah. Okay."

"No, wait, dude," he leans back on his hands and grins up at Marco, who's standing above him with determination on his features, "I was just messin' with you. I'm fine."

Marco's face is still conflicted, so Jean just reaches one hand up. Automatically, Marco grasps it, and Jean pulls himself up with Marco's help.

"See?" He sweeps up the bag with the cans in a too-cavalier movement, his balance shifting unexpectedly - Jean stumbles to the side and finds Marco's arms around his chest.  Magically, of course.  Like everything else that continues to happen between them, except Jean is really not kidding about being sick and is fresh out of fucks to give anymore.

Someone gives a low whistle, and Jean's head whips around, cheeks hot with-- fever. Connie's standing a few feet away, eyebrows crawling up his forehead, and Jean splutters.

"I'm fine, really," he defends himself in the face of Connie's judgement - and he shouldn't care because he's spoken to Connie all of three times and isn't sure they're even acquaintances.

"No, I don't think you're fine." And out of the corner of his eye Jean swears he sees a smirk on Marco's too-close features. "I'm revoking your walking privileges."

"You're _what_ -ing my _wha_ \-- oh what the _shit_!" The ground lurches below Jean as he's suddenly hoisted into a fireman's carry, dangling across Marco's broad shoulders, and he makes an indignant noise. "Oh god, please be gentle with my banana."

Marco puffs with laugher underneath him and heads for the elevators, Connie following and yanking the bag of soup from out of Jean's grasp.

"Dude, gross. I'm right _here_."

"No, there's a banana in my sweatshirt pocket and--" he wriggles his hips and makes a wretched face. "Too late. Banana down, repeat, banana down. A casualty to _this asshole's_ inability to take a joke."

He tries to kick at Marco, but not with any real force. And he misses anyway. So he slumps over Marco's shoulders, which dig into his chest and lower abdomen, and resigns himself to the situation. He does still feel kind of dizzy and feverish, so he closes his eyes and doesn't really move again until Connie's digging around in Jean's pants.

"Don't mug a sick dude," he moans. "Marco, kick him or something."

"You big baby, I'm looking for your keys - bingo!" Jean feels his zippered wallet slide out of his pocket, then hears the jingle of metal. "'Sides, we all know there's nothing we could even steal from you."

Jean grumbles in agreement, then Marco crab-walks him through the doorway to his own doorway and he swears he hears the brunet mutter an "excuse me" under his breath, even though Jean's roomie is clearly not here. What a loser.

A loser who brought him _cans of soup._

He makes a noise of disgust as Marco lays him out on the futon, feeling the half-smashed banana squish around in his sweatshirt pocket. Jean picks at the fruit-saturated fabric before his attention is suddenly drawn by the fact that Marco is yanking his own hoodie off. In the middle of his room. And the blue t-shirt he's wearing underneath only rides up for a second, revealing some non-descript but oddly interesting skin in the small of his back - then Marco's offering him a standard-issue Trost University sweatshirt with a smile.

"Sorry about, um. Your banana." With his free hand, he rubs the back of his neck, or maybe his shoulders. Yeah, that'd make sense since Jean's bony ass just got carried all the way up to his goddamn dorm. "You can borrow my sweatshirt if you want. It's pretty warm. I'll wash yours, too, if you want."

"Nice Cap shirt," Connie quips from near the doorway, where he's still holding Jean's keys in one hand, soup in the other. "Not as nice as the strip-tease, though."

Marco's ears go red.  Very, very red.

"I've seen better," Jean comments, in between more disgusted and sad noises as he fishes crushed banana out of his sweatshirt and flinging it in the wastebin. "Put the soup on my desk, please-- no, it's the other one."

"The one that looks like a Kleenex blizzard hit?"

"Obviously." Jean wipes his hand on his sweatshirt before struggling out of it and accepting Marco's offered clothing. There's still some fruit in between his fingers, though, so he sucks the sticky off them in quick succession, eyeing the red-and-white shield on Marco's chest. "Thanks for the stuff, Marco."

"Oh, it's, um. It's nothing, really," and Marco laughs in the general direction of the ceiling, edging backwards as Jean pulls on the borrowed hoodie. It's much thicker than Jean's tragically banana'd clothing, and he knows he's going to get it gross and sweaty just because it's warmer. Oh, well.

"'kay, I'm gonna leave now," Connie drawls as Jean snuggles into the couch. "Don't wanna be a third wheel any longer."

"Goddamn squeaky wheel, then," Jean gripes back, then reaches aimlessly for the lofted bed above him. "Hey, Marco, wanna grab me a blanket?"

There's a muttered "unbelievable" from just behind the door as it clicks shut, and Marco reaches easily to pull Jean's comforter off his bed. This, too, gets handed to Jean with a small smile. Jean tries to snort back a laugh of pure and utter satisfaction, which turns into a wet sneeze, which turns into Marco fetching him the box of tissues and the wastebin.

"Anyone ever call you a pushover, Marco?" he croaks, once he's dumped the mucus-filled tissue in the trash. Those eyes are warmer, even, than the clothes he's lending Jean as Marco goes the extra mile and grabs Jean's pillow from above and offers it to him.

"My sisters, yeah."

"Younger?"

Marco shifts his weight, Jean's rolled-up sweatshirt resting on his hip. "That easy?"

"Please. You practically _smell_ like a big brother." Jean pretends to stiff at Marco's sweatshirt, his sinuses too clogged to really pick up anything. But the sentiment's still clear, and Marco rolls his eyes.

"Well, I'll leave you to your nap. I'll just, um."

Jean watches Marco flounder at Jean's desk, hesitating before snatching a post-it note from the stack on the top shelf and a pen from the mug beside it.

"I'll just leave you my number in case you, um, need anything. I've got a car so I can run you places. If you need things and stuff like-- medicine. And, um... yeah." He writes, scribbles it out and tosses the paper in the trash. Jean lets his eyes track the movements as he peers around the corner of the desk. Marco writes, presumably, his number again and offers Jean one last smile. Not that his expression had ever really stopped smiling. Just a happy guy.

"See you around," Jean calls.

"Yeah. Oh," and Marco stops in the act of closing the door, "and get better soon! Drink lots of water and all that kind of thing."

Jean chases a yawn with the last word. "I will." It's punctuated with the click of the door closing behind Marco, and Jean buries himself back into the nest of soft fabric.


	7. Sicilian Daydreams to Treasure Forever, Can't You Just See It?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive apologies to Myfemalegaze for the delay in her commission, but it's come to my attention that I haven't nearly thanked [Michelle](http://enjouji.tumblr/com) enough for everything she does. so MORE PIZZA AU because i talked the chapter plot out with [Wren](http://jupiterandjellyfish.tumblr.com) the whole way home from ACEN and he helped me work shit out.

When Jean wakes up for the third and final day of his sickness, it's to his alarm for his morning classes. So he fumbles, fuzzy-headed, through his morning routine of getting ready for class and all he really notes is that Franz cleaned off his desk filled with tissues and other assorted trashy bits for him. Which was nice of him, and Jean doesn't think of it until the end of the school day when he's curled up on the futon diluting chicken and stars with water from the water fountain by the bathrooms.

And then he mutters "fuck," checks the empty wastebaskets in the room, says "fuck" again in a slighter louder tone and manages to catch Franz's attention.

"What?"

"There was a post-it note on my desk," Jean gripes through a persistently stuffy nose. "With someone's number on it."

"I didn't see anything in all the tissues - I'm sorry, dude." His roommate sinks into his seat under the weight of Jean's glare.

Folding himself into a more comfortable position, Jean holds his laptop between his bony knees and pulls up YouTube. "Whatever," he mutters, tight jawed and trying to hold back his wildfire temper. God knows he lost enough friends already by being a jackass. It's just a number, after all.

Nothing he can do about it. Maybe he'll meet Marco again; it just keeps happening, anyway, kind of like what Eld said. Fate and all that.

Jean forgets to press play on the video and just stares at the screen as he eats, and barely tastes the soup.

* * *

 

One week passes. No one from Tindle Road, Apt. 15 calls his workplace. Another little surge of assignments come and go, Hanji sends him home with the promised medium pizza from before with WASH YOUR HANDS written on it in pepperoni, and Jean hangs up Marco's sweatshirt in the back of his closet.

* * *

 

Two weeks after the soup incident, Jean's still got a faint, occasional cough that he muffles into his shoulder between phone calls at work. It's Halloween, and his first holiday working for Marco's Pizza - he's stuck with an even later shift than usual, since Petra asked him to cover her so she could work a Rocky Horror showing. At first, the mere mental image of her in Columbia's sequined bodice was worth more than his wages for the extra hours, but around midnight Jean wishes he'd been born without a sex drive.

The toe of Jean's shoe catches on the top on the stair, and he falls hard on one knee. A hissed curse rings out in harmony with the slap of his hand on the carpet, but Jean hauls himself up without hesitation. His shin's going to have a welt tomorrow, but whatever. Everything is just whatever. He doesn't care, he's too tired to stop and he doesn't even want to check if the pizza got damaged. It's fine. He's fine.

Only one more flight to go.

At least the time's gone by pretty fast - not because he's been having fun, really, though he has gotten glimpses of a large variety of costume parties in the past five hours through various doors. But he's been so busy he's had to spend some of his own money for gas, and he's terrified he's going to run out by the end of the night. Hopefully this place will give him a nice, cash tip.

Jean knocks on the door and coughs weakly before he can identity himself. The metal of apartment 9's door leaves an icy kiss on his knuckles, and he rubs them against his sweaty forehead while they're still cool. He drops the hand as he hears the screech of the deadbolt.  Just in time to pull himself together, he meets the cold eyes of a short blonde woman.

"Marco's Pizza," Jean croaks, clears his throat and unzips his pizza bag. "Two large Sicilian-styles for Anne?"

"Close enough. Food's here, boys," and both deliverer and recipient glance at the living room filled with the sanest-looking bunch of adults Jean has seen all night. One of them, the silvery-blond seated between the yellow-haired body builder and the worst black bowl cut Jean's ever seen, passes a wad of cash Anne's way with the kind of nonchalance that reeks of 'my dad's a lawyer' but Jean's envy is doused when he meets Marco's eyes.

And when Marco's expression sinks into one of horror, Jean's ready greeting dies on his tongue to be replaced with the empty taste of confusion.

"Keep the change."

Jean snaps back into work mode and passes off the pair of pizzas, fumbling with both boxes and words. "Yeah-- thanks, sorry, um, I hope it's good. Thank you, ma'am."

When he looks up again, Marco is gone and the woman in front of him is closing the door. Jean's never been good with his words when it counts, so he just lets himself be shut out of the warm apartment. Stands there for a few beats and considers, blindly, to press his ear to the door to see if he can hear anything about Marco.

The rest of his shift, Jean feels haunted, watched, shadowed at every stop he makes, and he pretends it's just because it's Halloween.

 

* * *

 

The nest day, after class, Jean bikes to Marco's apartment with a backpack stretched to the seams with a reused soda pop box stuffed with clothing and guilt. He hates to owe anyone anything, and Marco's sweatshirt is just a tiny bit too big for him to want to keep. The sleeves keep rolling down and he has to fight the urge to roll them up perpetually to his elbows - it stretches the cuff out too much, and this he knows from personal experience.

So he's just going to leave it on Marco's porch and hope that it lifts more weight than what he's carrying around in his backpack.

Jean coasts to a stop at the base of the stairs, leans his bike against the brick and starts the slow climb, knee still a little sore from the previous night. He's concluded that Eld had been wrong, it hadn't been fate, otherwise Franz wouldn't have thrown away Marco's number. Or Marco would have called the pizza place to ask about him. Or he wouldn't have looked so offended to see Jean last night.

So leaving the borrowed sweatshirt on Marco's doorstep feels like the last page in a very, very short book about a series of food-related events that petered out to nothing. Maybe he feels a little sad about that, or maybe he's just sleep deprived from an eight-hour shift on one of the busiest nights of the year at his pizza place. In any case, Jean hauls his weary body up the last steps and drops to a crouch to rustle through his backpack just outside Marco's door.

The footsteps don't register in Jean's mind until he hears the jingle of keys and looks up to see a stranger standing over him. He looks to be about Jean's age, with a wary look in his eyes and a frown on his face, bundled tightly in one of those puffy, noisy winter coats.

The man holds his keys like a knife and stares Jean down. "Can I help you?" His voice wavers at the end, and Jean wonders just how shady he looks with a stocking cap pulled nearly down to his eyes from the cold.

"Oh, um, are you Marco's roommate?"

"You know Marco?" The stranger - or the roommate, since his reaction kind of answered Jean's question - regards with a new wave of suspicion, and Jean rocks back on his heels nervously.

"Kind of. I've run into him a few times, just-- around, you know? He's a customer of mine. Um. Ours. I guess." Jean gives up trying to form words when he's this tired and just shoves the box in the man's direction. "But here, he left his sweatshirt at my place last time he was over, so could you give it to him for me?"

Marco's roommate stares down at the box with an expression uncannily similar to the one Marco wore not even eighteen hours ago, but he takes the box.

"Yeah. Fine. I'll make sure he gets it."

"Thanks," and Jean offers a handshake only to realize the man doesn't have a free hand. "Uh, I'm Jean. And you're...?"

"He... he never mentioned me?"

"Look, I don't-- I didn't know him that well, I--" Jean is starting to get the feeling that there is a lot he doesn't know about Marco, if only judging by the way his roommate is staring down at the box in his hand with tense, painful lines etching across his forehead. "He might have, but I'm really bad with names. Sorry. I-- I should go, I've got work in like twenty minutes so... see ya." He hefts his backpack over his shoulder again and rises with a wince.

"I'm Dazz. Nice to meet you," Marco's roommate mutters, and Jean nods tightly as he walks away, trots down the stairs with an uneven catch in his gait, and grits his teeth the entire bike trip to work.

 

* * *

 

Thankfully, it's a fairly slow shift - Jean's having trouble keeping his eyes open, even with a couple cups of Hanji's disturbingly sweet coffee sending bolts of sugar and caffeine through his veins - and he even manages to get a forward on his paycheck as part of his compensation for yesterday's gas money, so he's in a good mood when he heads out back to where he parked his bike. But that joy evaporates as he realizes that his bike isn't there anymore.

"You have got to be shitting me," he whines to the universe in general, digging his fingers into the edge of his hat and pulling it down even tighter over his ears. Jean stomps across the back parking lot to the empty bike rack whose blurry shadows gouge the pavement with dark, narrow lines. His lock is still there, just snapped in two with a pair of bolt cutters and he feels sick. It's the day after Halloween, when he might have expected some shit like this, but--

Something gleams in the trees across the road under the headlights of a passing car, and Jean's pulse dares to flutter with hope. He gathers himself together and jogs across the road, muttering under his breath at the car that honks at him to "make my fucking day, you ass wipe" and tries to use the light of his phone to study the bike suspended in the branches a good seven feet off the ground.

As far as he can tell, it's his and it doesn't look broken. But there's no way that he's going to be able to ride it home, even if he can take it down. Fury bubbles in his blood, all the hotter for the exhaustion and stress of the last two days, and Jean shrugs off the top layer of his clothing.

When the next car passes by, headlines illuminating a rough path into the branches by way of snapped off twigs and the natural shape of the tree, Jean launches himself against the trunk. He's a little out of practice for the whole thing, and upper body strength has never been his forte, but there are still some callouses in his hands that shield him from the worst scrape of the bark. His shoes scrabble against the trunk as he manages to get his elbow over one of the thicker limbs and hauls himself into a brief, uncomfortable, position of stability.

Then the next set of headlights veers to the side and slows down, and Jean presses his forehead to the bark and prays that it's not Petra.

"Jean?" hails a familiar voice, soft and masculine.

"Marco?"

God, it's almost worse. Jean tries to peer over his shoulder, but with one heel precariously balanced over the edge of the lowest branch and his ribcage slowly bruising as he wriggles, it's impossible to really get a view of below. He hears a car door slam, but Marco leaves his lights on. Jean's almost ashamed to have his plight illuminated for the entire street to spectate, but he can reach out and grab the back wheel of his bike with the provided light so he'll just accept it.

"I was just, um... returning your sweatshirt. The one I borrowed from you. Dazz told me you came by today. I washed it and... what are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he snaps, pissed and impatient and caffeine to impulsion. There's a pause in the air that hurts as Jean yanks down on the wheel of his bicycle and feels it give. "My bike's stuck."

Jean pushes himself forward with the foot on the branch, leaning forward as far as he can reach as he grabs the bike with both hands and tries to lift it. A stick falls to the ground and lands in the shadow Marco casts on the tree trunk that's starting to fade as he walks away.

"I'll-- I'll go. Sorry."

There's a moment of November-cold clarity as Jean feels his center of gravity shift and he starts to fall forward. And he wonders, briefly, if he really is destined to keep running into Marco after all, like some outside force keeps pushing them together for some unknown deeper reason.

When the bark tears at the exposed skin of his hipbones as he pitches forward, still clinging to the bike, he also wonders if this is going to be the one dumb stunt that kills him. Or if, after all these annoyingly convenient meetings, Marco's going to catch him.

Jean belly-flops onto the grass in a shower of twigs hard enough that the wind is knocked out of him, and he is reminded very painful that life is seldom that spectacular.

"Oh, crap. Jean? Do you... do you want me to call someone?" He catches Marco step towards him in a short, aborted run, and shakes his head in denial. Watches Marco's body tense with indecision, the nuances of his expression cast in shadow from the backlit glow of his car's headlights.

And then as Jean rolls onto his back to glare up at the bike that's still suspended in the branches of the tree, Marco seems to come to some conclusion and approaches him cautiously. Jean's still getting his breath back when Marco offers him a hand, so when he sees the bicycle start to fall he can only wave his arms and try to suck air into his uncooperative lungs. There's a rattle of branches against metal, Marco follows his gaze and manages to stop the bike from hitting Jean in the face with a last second scramble to grab it.

"Oh, so you could catch the _bike_ ," Jean wheezes as Marco holds the obviously dented bicycle and glances, conflicted, between it and Jean.

"Do you, um," and Marco leans the bike against the tree and pulls Jean to his feet with the strength that reminds him that Marco literally carried him to his dorm that time, "want a ride home?"

Jean gestures bitterly to the dented, scratched up bicycle lounging innocently against the tree. "What do you think?"

He gathers up his discarded jacket as Marco works the bicycle into his back seat, letting himself into the car and promptly melting into the heated front seat - seriously, how could he say no to this? - with his newly-returned sweatshirt spread over his knees. Marco joins him moments later, turning the key in the ignition and pulling out, carefully, onto the road.

Jean feels the silence settle taut over the car, but he doesn't trust himself to break it without sounding like an ass just yet. So he tries out some phrases in his mind, like _thanks for the soup back then_ or _nice meeting you_ or _sorry I can't afford fabric softener so your hoodie is just gonna smell like department-store brand detergent and probably a little bit like pizza because everything I touch smells like it eventually_  but Marco beats him to it.

"Look, I... I don't want you to feel like you owe me or anything. It's ok. Sometimes," and his smile grows strained, colored in shades of the same expression he wore last night and the yellow traffic light that makes him ease on the brakes, "people just don't click. It's totally fine. I don't want you to feel like you have to be friends with me just because I do something for you. Ok?"

"Ok?" Jean echoes back, slightly confused. This wasn't the reaction he was expecting, but then again he can't really articulate what he expected. And then it dawns on him. "Oh, no. Your number."

Marco steals a glance at him.

"Your number, Franz threw it away. Oh, shit, I didn't-- No, man, I like you. Not just for your heated seats. I just got busy."

"You don't have to make excuses--"

"No, I'm serious." Jean spots Marco's phone plugged in and charging, swipes aside a text from Dazz and after a moment's hesitation, finds Marco's contacts book.

The light switches to green, but Marco grabs for his phone. "What are you--" a horn from behind them blares over the end of his question, and his hands snap back to the steering wheel as if they're magnetised there by social obligation. Jean rocks back into the seat slightly with the force of Marco's acceleration.

"I'm giving you my number. Call it a sign of good faith."

"I don't think it works like that," Marco frets, flicking on his turn signal and catching Jean's eye for a heartbeat before he stares straight ahead once more. Jean resumes his fumbling with Marco's phone until Jean Double Sausage has been safely saved into the contacts list.

By that time, they're pulling into Jean's dorm parking lot, and he flashes Marco his entry in the contacts as proof. "Here. Now stop making that face like I just kicked a puppy. Is it so hard to believe that someone could want to be friends with you without having to be bribed by food and heated seats?"

He doesn't wait for an answer to that - he's just too tired to care by this point, especially when he pulls his bike out of the back seat and gets an up-close view of the damage done not only to the frame, but to the wheel as well. Time for an afternoon phone call to his parents and probably a skipped class to give him time to walk to work tomorrow.

"Thanks for the ride. Night, Marco."

"Double Sausage?"

Jean peers over the back of Marco's seat to meet the brunet's amused stare. "Yeah, so? It's how we met. Don't you do that? Mark from Japanese, Kelly from Statistics, you know?"

"Yeah, but--" Marco's smile looks as unsteady as a newborn fawn, and nearly as cute. "Really? Not Pizza Boy or something like that?"

"Well, if you text me I can add you in my phone as Marco Extra Cheese this way. I've already got a Marco's Pizza in my phone. I don't need a second."

Marco turns away, smile still evident in his voice as it should be. "Go get some sleep, Jean."

He feels almost offended as he lugs both bike - he will find a way to fix it this weekend, somehow, he used to be in 4H - and sweatshirt into his dorm and then the elevator. But by the time the doors close, he's gotten a text from an unknown number.

_Good night, Jean. :)_

And maybe it's not fate. Just friendship. Which, at the moment, feels just as good.


End file.
